


Queen Maeve

by thedaughterofkings



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Established Relationship, M/M, Married Couple, Minor Character Death, Of old age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedaughterofkings/pseuds/thedaughterofkings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Boyd Arms" the sign says in chunky black letters on white ground that had gotten cracked with age. </p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>A story about love, marriage, jams, Irish legends, and a little old lady in a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen Maeve

**Author's Note:**

> first published on my tumblr [here](http://thedaughterofkings.tumblr.com/post/127715960701/can-you-write-some-cute-married-stoyd), written for an anon who asked for cute married Stoyd.
> 
> Beta-read by the lovely [Larissa](http://www.ohfuckthisshit.tumblr.com/), all of the remaining mistakes and antiquated language belong to me!

“Boyd! Boyd! Look at that!”

Stiles tugs on Boyd’s hand and eventually lets go when Boyd doesn’t move quickly enough for his liking. He practically runs down the hill towards the house on the corner, obviously trusting Boyd to follow him. Boyd does of course, he’d follow Stiles to the edge of the world -  just at a more leisurely pace.

When he catches up with Stiles, he can’t help smiling softly. Stiles is trying to peer into the house, hands and nose pressed against the glass like a little kid against the sweet shop window. Boyd steps in close behind him and presses a kiss to the side of his head, asking:

“What is it, love?”

Stiles turns around in Boyd’s embrace and there’s some dirt on his nose, soot or dust or something else that has left a dark smudge, but his eyes are glowing excitedly. Boyd isn’t a man of many words, it’s a running gag in their circle of friends that he has Stiles for those, but the feelings that fill him at the knowledge that this man is his forever, for better or for worse, till death do them part, could fill the pages of a huge tome. For now he confines himself to gently wiping the dirt off Stiles’ nose and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. 

Stiles starts talking while their lips are still touching, breathing his words fast and excited into Boyd’s mouth, apparently unable to keep them inside even a moment longer.

“It’s destiny, that’s what it is!”

Stiles takes a step to the side so that he’s standing next to Boyd rather than in front of him, one of Boyd’s arms still wrapped around him, and points up at a sign above them. Boyd has been so focussed on Stiles that he hadn’t even noticed it yet. 

In chunky black letters on white ground that had gotten cracked with age, it says “BOYD ARMS”. 

“It’s you!” Stiles exclaims and adds, voice going lower and eyebrows wiggling suggestively: “And my, what big arms you have!”

He playfully gives the arm not wrapped around him a squeeze and then squirms and laughs when Boyd retaliates by putting both arms around him and squeezing hard with his “big arms”.

“Careful, my teeth are even bigger,” Boyd teases, baring his teeth in a playful snarl. Stiles snarls back, though it really is just a bigger grin, no aggressiveness whatsoever on display. Boyd can’t help leaning in and nipping that upturned nose, making Stiles cross his eyes looking at him. He leaves a series of small nips along the moles scattered across Stiles’ cheek until he reaches his ear and tugs softly at Stiles’ lobe before whispering:

“The biggest part of me is my heart though, and that one’s all yours, love.”

Stiles smacks his shoulder and exclaims: “Oh my god, you  sap !”

But the faint blush staining his cheeks pink and the deep kiss he drags Boyd into proclaim his pleasure with Boyd’s sappiness loud enough. Boyd doesn’t get to enjoy kissing his still quite new husband for long though, because Stiles breaks away soon after to demand that they take a picture. Or twenty.

He first takes a few pictures of Boyd alone in front of the house, ordering him to turn this way or that, “now face the house and look back over your shoulder, that’s it, awesome, now give us some blue steel! Hot damn!”

Then he tries to take a selfie of both of them with the sign visible in the background. That doesn’t work out quite as well, despite the numerous contortions Stiles has them perform, complaining loudly that he should have gotten that selfie stick after all. 

“You almost broke that guy’s nose when you tried it out at the stand,” Boyd is very glad to remind him. He’d rather not spend his honeymoon talking to lawyers because Stiles wants to take selfies everywhere. By taking them the old fashioned way the only people they can hurt are themselves and they are both pretty flexible so Boyd isn’t that worried.

“Do you boys need some help?” a decidedly amused voice asks from above them - Stiles’ latest attempt to take the perfect “Boyd-Stiles-Boyd sandwich” picture had them half-lying, half-kneeling on the pavement. When Boyd looks up, he sees an elderly man grinning down at them, offering Stiles a hand up.

“Do you want me to take a picture of you two?” the man offers once they are all upright and standing again.

“Oh would you?” Stiles asks hopefully, adding immediately: “But you’ve got to make sure the sign is visible behind us, too!”

“Alright, I’ll do my best,” the man replies, taking Stiles’ phone from him, and after some quick explanations from Stiles, starts taking pictures of them. 

“Why do you need the sign in the background though?” he asks conversationally, still clicking away. 

“Because that’s his name!” Stiles explains, adding “Vernon Boyd IV” with a flourish much to Boyd’s chagrin. There’s a reason he only goes by Boyd after all. To his credit, all their new acquaintance asks is: 

“Some relation to you, son?”

“No, sir, not that I know off.” Boyd shakes his head. He’s pretty sure that his grand-mère would have told him if they’d had any roots or relatives in Northern Ireland. 

“Well, you can always go and ask old Maeve,” their photographer says, handing Stiles back his phone. “She should be in, and I’m sure she’d love to talk to you.” And without waiting for their reactions, he turns and knocks on the door of the Boyd Arms. 

After a couple of moments, an old lady opens the door, small, and appearing even smaller from hunching over, white hair in a bun on the top of her head, deep wrinkles on her face, deepest along the laughter lines. If Boyd had to guess he’d say she wasn’t a day under a hundred. The twinkle in her eyes tells him though that he’d probably get smacked for that guess. 

“What is it, Neill?” she asks, adding with a wink. “You know I’m not going to marry you today, either!”

The elderly man, though still looking a couple of decades younger than her, nods gravely and says: “I’ll have to ask again tomorrow then, Maeve. But I’m not here for myself today, these two young gentleman would like to talk to you. He’s a Boyd,” he adds, pointing back at Boyd who finds himself the focus of a remarkably sharp gaze then.

“Well, do come in then! How about a cup of tea?” she offers, retreating back into the house, leaving the door open after her. Boyd hesitates and when he looks over at Stiles, he’s looking a bit overwhelmed as well, which is no mean feat. Their photographer, Neill, says: “I wouldn’t keep her waiting if I were you, boys, she doesn’t like that.”

And again, without waiting for their response or even a thanks for taking their picture, he starts walking away, whistling tunelessly. When Boyd looks back at Stiles, he’s got that glint in his eyes that says he’s made up his mind and he’s going to go through with his plan, even if it might be a bad one.

  
“What’s the worst that could happen?” he asks, and enters the lion’s den, taking Boyd’s hand and dragging him along. Boyd follows of course. As if he’d ever do anything else.

It’s dark inside, black shadows slowly revealing themselves as chairs and tables, covered by some sort of tarp. As Boyd’s eyes get used to the darkness around them, he realises that they are in what appears to be the old bar room, the counter to their left. Ahead of them, light shines through an open doorway, and after sharing another look and a shrug with Stiles, Boyd starts walking towards it, making sure to keep ahead of Stiles, just in case the old lady does turn out to be a serial killer in disguise.

A narrow staircase leads them up into a tastefully decorated parlour though, full of light and flowers. There’s some rattling in the next room, probably the kitchen, and sure enough, Maeve appears in the door holding a tray with a steaming pot of tea, some dainty cups and a whole plate of various biscuits. 

Boyd reflexively reaches out to take it off her hands, but she makes a shooing gesture with her head and tells them to make themselves comfortable. Before they know it they are sitting next to each other, and are being continuously plied with tea and biscuits while an old lady is getting them to spill all of their secrets. 

Well, it’s not as though it was hard, the first thing she asked was how long they’d been married and Stiles has practically told her their entire life stories ever since. Boyd just sits back and enjoys the cookies. They seem to be homemade and he’s trying to figure out what kind of jam is in the star shaped ones. So when she says: “I heard that you have some questions for me, young man. Ask away.” his first question is “what berries are in this jam? I can tell there’s raspberries in here but I can’t figure out what the more tangy ones are?”

Thankfully she doesn’t mind and is happy to tell him that it’s raspberry red currants jam and “well done on recognising the raspberries! I’ve got some more homemade jams for you to try if you want to.”

A couple of minutes later, the little coffee table is overflowing with different sorts of jam and marmalade, in a wide variety of shades from almost see through golden yellow over bright orange and red to a purplish red that’s so dark it almost looks black. Boyd is able to immediately identify the orange marmalade - it’s got zest in it, he wouldn’t have even had to taste it to be able to tell - and now that he knows about the red currants, he can guess that there’s black currants in the very dark jam. There’s also strawberry jams, a regular one, one with lemon and one with pink pepper in it which is strange but also really cool. And one jam is bright red and smells and tastes so strongly of roses that Boyd is convinced that it has to include artificial colour and flavour. 

Maeve denies that though and makes him lean in, as though she’s going to tell him an important secret, whispering under her breath that “the secret is in using only the most fragrant, fresh flowers and letting them simmer in hot water with the lid on. When they’ve lost their colour, sift them out and add a new handful, bringing the water to the boil again. Repeat that until you’re satisfied with the colour and smell or until you’ve got no more roses left.”

Boyd has to admit defeat on the two most lightly coloured jams though and if his eyes are not deceiving him then Maeve is looking smug when she tells him that the see-through yellow one is dandelion jam of all things, and the slightly darker yellow one is made out of quinces. 

Stiles doesn’t even try to name any of the ingredients, he just taste tests the jams and declares them all “majestic!”

Maeve winks at him and says conspiratorially: “I am in fact named after a queen, you know, a warrior queen!”

Stiles’ eyes get appropriately wide and astonished.

“No!”

“Yes!”

And then she tells them the story of Maeve, or Medb, and the Táin Bó Cúailnge, how she left her first husband and became his worst enemy, how she had several husbands and lovers, renamed all her sons hoping to fulfill a prophecy, and was killed by a piece of cheese. When Boyd can’t hold back a snort at that he’s hit by twin glares. Stiles has obviously been getting very into Maeve’s stories. She finishes her tale with:

“And that’s where she’s buried, on the summit of Cnoc na Ré, standing upright, forever facing her enemies in Ulster, covered by forty feet of stones that no one has dared disturb since her burial. And it is ever growing, for every visitor to Medb’s grave should bring a stone to add to her cairn to honour her and her power.”

Stiles turns sideways to face Boyd and says: “We’ve got to do that! Boyd, can we do that? Please?”

Boyd is faced with a seriously lethal case of puppy dog eyes and how can anyone expect him to resist that? So he nods, and then smiles fondly when Stiles claps his hands excitedly. He hadn’t been planning on actually going up Knocknarea because you’ve apparently got to hike a bit, but they will be in the area and if Stiles wants to go then Boyd can definitely work it into their schedule. 

They spend the rest of the evening with Maeve instead of going to the pub as planned. When it’s time for dinner, she actually cooks for them, though she does at least let them help her, explaining everything she does to Boyd and smacking Stiles’ hands when he tries to sneak a few bites before the food is ready. While eating, they do eventually get to the topic of their shared surnames - because her full name is Maeve Boyd as they learn, and though they quickly come to the conclusion that there’s probably no relation, Maeve still tells them the entire history of her family, and after dinner, drags out the big, old, and somewhat musty picture albums, full of mostly black and white photographs. 

Boyd covers her hand when she tries to flip away from a picture that shows a young woman that has to be herself standing in front of the Boyds Arms, grinning proudly. 

“Did you do this all by yourself?” he asks because there hasn’t been any talk of a significant other and no pictures either. She nods, but adds: “I’ve had help of course, girls, and a few boys, too, but I still did most of the work. I’ve had to stop though. I might still feel like I’m not a day older than twenty but my traitorous body unfortunately does not agree.”

She looks sad and Boyd is glad when Stiles quickly changes the topic, whipping out his phone to show her pictures of their wedding, of Scott crying while trying to deliver his best man speech, of Boyd’s little sisters as their flower girls, of Stiles’ dad and Boyd’s grand-mère hugging. Maeve is a very captive audience, she cooes at Boyd’s sisters with their flower crowns, gently teases Stiles for his bowtie and praises Boyd’s more traditional choice of a regular tie. When Stiles has gone through all the photos on his and Boyd’s phones and all the wedding photo albums on their closests friends’ social media, they return to the sitting room again and Maeve turns down the lights and lights up the fake fireplace and some real candles and tells them more Irish legends.

Boyd listens to her of course, it’s all very interesting and fascinating but he’s read about many of them already while planning their honeymoon and so he ends up focussing more on Stiles and his reactions. 

  
Stiles laps it all up. He’s holding Boyd’s hand tightly and whenever something exciting happens he squeezes it even harder. He gasps and ohs and nos and ahs and aws in all the right places and sometimes elbows Boyd if he feels a part is important enough that it warrants a reaction from him as well. Boyd’s reaction is usually a kiss - pressed to Stiles’ cheek, his nose, his palm, his wedding ring. It always gets him a blush and a kiss in return and a smile from Maeve. 

It’s very late by the time they leave. Stiles has more dreamt than listened to Maeve’s last story, snuggled into Boyd’s side, head resting heavily on his shoulder. He swears that he heard every single word later, but Boyd is pretty sure some of those snuffles were actually snores. 

Maeve hugs them both farewell and for such a small person she has a remarkable amount of strength. They’ve already exchanged numbers and addresses and she has extracted promises from them to keep in contact. Still, Stiles’ eyes look suspiciously wet when he turns back to Boyd after hugging Maeve. Boyd draws him into his side, hand gently stroking Stiles’ side. They are both facing Maeve now who smiles at them and beckons them down to her level so she can press a kiss to their cheeks. 

“Enjoy the rest of your honeymoon, boys!”

And they do. They hike up Knocknarea to leave stones at Queen Maeve’s burial place that they picked up at the beach the day before. Stiles had to go for a swim of course - or just some jumping around in the water really. He was the only one for miles without a wetsuit on and Boyd didn’t have to hear the locals to understand their thoughts on that, their glances spoke volumes already, namely “look at that insane tourist”.

Afterwards, Boyd had to help Stiles get warm again which took some considerable effort - but it wasn’t as if he minded. Getting Stiles to gasp and flush pink all the way down was no chore, it was his pleasure. Literally.

Stiles sends postcards to Maeve every single day. There’s no rhyme and reason to which one he chooses. Sometimes it’s the prettiest one, sometimes the cheesiest, often just the most ridiculous one he can find. When they come home, they discover that she’s sent back a postcard for every single one she received. Some are reactions to things Stiles has written, others have got a little recipe for Boyd to try out on the back, but the largest batch is made up of story postcards, Maeve telling them Irish tales across the Atlantic, one story often spanning several postcards. 

With all of them home again, they stop sending postcards, but they start sending letters back and forth, with the occasional phone call on birthdays and other special occasions. When it comes to the next time they both manage to take more than a few days off at the same time, it’s not even a point of discussion, Stiles calls Maeve and talks her ear off for half an hour and Boyd books their flights as soon as she gives her okay to them visiting.

This time they don’t stay at a B&B or a hotel, they stay with Maeve, in one of the old guest rooms. It’s got that decorated-half-a-century-ago charm, all flowers and tassels and crocheted bedspread. The bed is too soft, even if they start the night on opposite sides, by morning they wake up all tangled up together in the dip in the middle. Stiles accuses Maeve of meddling and matchmaking to which she brandishes a long wooden spoon at him and demands to know why they need meddling beds in the first place and “Don’t tell me you are not treating my grandson right!” Stiles splutters and Boyd stops stirring the white wine sauce for their seafood linguine for a moment to draw Maeve into a hug and press a kiss to the top of her head. She pinches his cheek with a fond smile when he lets her go again and proceeds to chase Stiles around the kitchen with her spoon. Boyd finishes dinner listening to his almost thirty year old husband screech and giggle like a toddler while his almost a hundred year old newly adopted grandmother laughs like a hyena. It’s wonderful.

Their vacation passes in a blur of seafood recipes, Irish tales and Maeve teaching Stiles how to knit. He produces what is supposed to be a highland cow but in fact looks like a very concerning alien pig. Boyd can’t keep a straight face while it’s ceremoniously gifted to him but thankfully Stiles cracks himself up halfway through his “I made this for you with my own hands, blood, and soul, LOVE IT” speech. The pig-cow gets the place of honour in their room, sitting on their flower pillows when they are not in bed and on Boyd’s nightstand when they are. Stiles steals one of the doilies from the sitting room and throws it over the cow-pig to “protect its delicate sensibilities” before he allows Boyd to kiss him. They aren’t actually doing anything that their little bovine or porcine friend would have to be protected from - Stiles starts giggling whenever he catches a glimpse of the doily covered highland cow and eventually Boyd just rolls them over so that Stiles is facing his own nightstand. He presses close to him from behind and wraps his arm around Stiles, resting his hand on Stiles’ heart. The occasional snigger makes it shake and slip but Boyd always brings it back up until he can feel Stiles’ heart beating beneath his palm again. Eventually Stiles calms down and Boyd is close to sleep when he feels more than hears Stiles whisper:

“Sorry.”

Boyd keeps his voice low to match and asks: “What for, love?”

“For not being serious and probably giving you blue balls.”

Boyd leans in and presses a kiss to Stiles’ nape where he’s got his head ducked forward.

“Love, if you don’t feel like you’re allowed to laugh with me then I’ve seriously  done something wrong. And we’re no longer eighteen, I think I can survive a night without sex.”

Stiles gasps indignantly. 

“A night without sex? Do we need Maeve’s meddling bed after all? What has our marriage come to? Do you not find me attractive anymore, Boyd? Have you found yourself a younger, prettier version of me?”

Boyd gently bites Stiles’ shoulder where it meets his neck which gets him a gasp and Stiles squirming in his arms.

“Yes, absolutely. And first thing tomorrow I’m going to get a tattoo of a cowboy and buy a motorcycle because I’ve obviously reached my midlife crisis already.”

Stiles is quiet for a moment and when he speaks again his voice is noticeably breathy.

“I bet you’d look good in leather.”

“Mmhm, you think so?” 

Boyd lets his hand drift lower on Stiles’ torso until he reaches the bottom of the shirt Stiles is wearing. At the first touch of Boyd’s fingers against bare skin, Stiles lets out a small noise that is barely more than a breath but still gets Boyd’s blood boiling. He trails his fingers up again, following the path of moles he can’t see but has memorised long ago. His hand comes to rest over Stiles’ heart again which is beating faster now. When Boyd strokes across Stiles’ nipple with his thumb, Stiles’ heart skips a beat. 

“Yeah,” it’s almost a moan and Boyd presses that little bit further into Stiles, nudging a knee in between Stiles’ legs.

“You used to have that leather jacket in high school,” Stiles continues and he’s sounding dreamy now. “You probably wouldn’t fit into it anymore, your shoulders have gotten so broad,” that’s definitely an appreciative moan - “but perhaps a new one, and leather pants of course, ooh, and one of those bikes where you’re more lying than sitting.”

  
Boyd would feel jealous at how worked up Stiles is getting if it wasn’t Boyd himself he was fantasising about. As it is, he just enjoys it and the tiny movements of Stiles’ hips, little twists and thrusts that he doesn’t even seem to be aware of himself. 

“And where are you in that scenario?” Boyd whispers into Stiles’ ear, taking the opportunity to bite it lightly and tug on the earlobe. “Behind me, pressed tightly to my back, arms wrapped around my chest?” 

They can’t get any closer so Boyd’s attempt to press them even further together ends up being a slow grind that makes Stiles gasp and jerk. He grips Stiles’ chest tightly for a moment and then twists his nipple which has hardened into a tight nub. Stiles moans and squirms, and drops one of his own hands on Boyd’s, with the thin barrier of his shirt between them. His nipples have always been extra sensitive, to the point where Stiles sometimes can’t take even the slightest touch to them.

“Or perhaps under me, chest to chest, the bike vibrating under us, the curve of the seat forcing your back to arch into me?”

Boyd lifts himself up slightly, making Stiles roll onto his back, until they’re face to face like he’d just described. Stiles’ cheeks are flushed pink and his pupils are blown wide and dark, lashes a sooty shadow when he blinks up at Boyd. He’s the very picture of innocence and debauchment all rolled into one. Boyd is helpless to do anything but lean down and kiss him. 

They are both breathing heavily, chests brushing whenever they both breath in at the same time, hearts beating overtime. But the kiss is still soft, a gentle brush of lips, a nip of teeth, the slow, wet glide of a tongue. Boyd lowers his weight onto one arm so that he can thread his free hand into Stiles’ hair, tugging his head back slightly to fit their lips together more firmly. The movement makes them touch from head to toe, Boyd’s body coming to rest on Stiles’, though he’s careful to keep most of his weight away from him. 

Stiles curls both arms around Boyd’s shoulders and one leg around his hip and tugs him down until they’re pressed together properly, not even a breath of air fitting in between them. They both break the kiss to moan as their erections touch, one hot line of pressure sending sparks through Boyd’s entire body. Stiles’ back arches up and his hands clutch tightly at Boyd’s back and then he starts a slow, rolling rhythm, grinding up against Boyd. Their mouths are still touching, but they aren’t kissing so much anymore rather than panting into each other’s mouth, the hot, moist air building up between them. 

Boyd’s thrusting down in counterpart to Stiles’ grinding movements and it doesn’t take long before he can feel Stiles tense, both of his legs wrapped around Boyd now, dragging him down, keeping him where he needs him. His fingernails are leaving crescent marks through the thin fabric of Boyd’s shirt. Stiles’ moan and the heat and moisture that’s suddenly easing his movements sends Boyd over the edge as well. Stiles has let his legs drop away from Boyd’s waist again and his hands are slowly stroking up and down Boyd’s back, soothing the marks they just left there. 

  
Careful not to elbow or knee him anywhere sensitive, Boyd lowers himself next to Stiles, lying on his side and waiting for his breath and heartbeat to calm down. They’ll have to clean up soon if they want to get any proper rest tonight, but for now Boyd just watches Stiles, his hand again resting over Stiles’ heart, his still heaving chest. Stiles’ eyes are closed, lips and cheeks flushed bright pink, his hair a mess and the only noise that fills the room are their heavy breaths and the ticking of the clock on the wall.

After a few more minutes of quiet, Stiles turns onto his side as well, facing Boyd. He smiles softly and grabs Boyd’s hand that has slipped off his chest with the movement, his wedding ring glinting in the light of their bedside lamps. They just lie there looking at each other, holding hands, until Stiles’ eyes focus on something over Boyd’s shoulder and he suddenly cracks up, leaning forward and hiding his face and muffling his giggles in Boyd’s chest. 

When he raises his head again, his eyes are fairly dancing with mirth.

“Guess we needed that doily after all!”

It takes Boyd a moment of confusion until he remembers the highland pig and its delicate sensibilities and then he groans and rolls his eyes, making Stiles laugh again. Boyd lightly nips his nose and replies:   
  
“But not Maeve’s meddling matchmaking bed.”

~*~

The Boyd Arms becomes more of their home than their apartment in the states. Over the next years, they save up any money they can for plane tickets to Ireland. They’ve got to move several times, changing jobs, changing landlords, changing flats. But at the Boyd Arms, things stay the same, their room, the sign, Maeve waiting for them with tea and scones. The time they spend there is so short in comparison to the rest of the year but it’s somehow richer, more important, fuller of life than all the months spent in America. It even saves their marriage, at least according to Stiles, and Boyd is inclined to agree with him.

Three years into their regular trips to Ireland, the divorce papers are all but signed when their planned visit to Maeve comes up. They bought the tickets way in advance, to save money, and there’s nothing to do but fly now. The long hours of the flight are spent in silence, Stiles’ head resting against the window and not lying on Boyd’s shoulder like usual. They don’t get any free drinks for being “just so cute!”; they do not even get recognised as a couple. The stewardess asks both of them what their plans are in Ireland, not realising that they are travelling together. There’s no big reason for the state of their marriage, no cheating, no falling in love with someone else, not even falling out of love. They just don’t click anymore, don’t work anymore, have no idea how to talk to each other, listen to each other. 

Boyd drives them up from Dublin to the coast, and it’s always hard to adjust to driving on the left, being on the wrong side of the road, the wrong side of the car, the middle too close and the curb too far away. In reality it’s always the other way round, he’ll drive way too far left at the beginning, until he gets used to it again, always at risk of hitting something if he’s not extra careful. Before, Stiles used to natter his ear of on their way up, talking about what he has planned for their vacation, how Maeve promised to tell him the Tragedy of the Children of Lir this time, and warning Boyd whenever he drifted too far to the left. But this time, Stiles just turns to face the window again and refuses to say anything. Apparently he not only keeps his mouth, but also his eyes shut because there is no warning from him when Boyd veers too far left accidentally. They get off easy, no one gets hurt, there isn’t even another car involved, just a wall that leaves some scratches on the rental. But they still have a screaming match in the middle of the road that ends with Stiles shouting “well if I’ve gotten this  useless  to you, perhaps you should just throw me away all together!” and Boyd not saying anything to that. 

When they finally arrive at the Boyd Arms, the tension between them could be cut with a knife, and they can’t even bother pretending for the sake of Maeve. 

They’d been sleeping alone already for a few weeks, Boyd taking the couch because Stiles gets killer headaches from his neck if he sleeps on it. And they’d been planning on doing the same in the Boyd Arms, both looking forward to their own bed, their own room. But when Boyd tries to bring his stuff to another room, Maeve suddenly appears and has an excuse for every single one of the other guest rooms. She lost the keys to one of them, another one’s been cleaned out recently, “there’s not even a chair in there anymore!”, someone broke the bed in the one near the stairs, the window’s missing a panel in the one above the kitchen so there’s always a draft, and oh no, the tiny one upstairs doesn’t work either, there’s raccoons nesting there! 

Maeve’s couch is definitely nowhere near long enough for either of them to sleep on, so there’s nothing Boyd can do but carry his bags into their room. Stiles looks at him sharply when he enters but he doesn’t say anything, so Boyd just starts unpacking. When he puts his book on the nightstand, he sees the highland cow sitting on its doily and with a pang, remembers Stiles giggling about its delicate sensibilities and the laughter and kisses that followed. He doesn’t even remember when he last kissed Stiles, never mind laughed with him. And he certainly hasn’t gotten any gifts in even longer. 

That night, Maeve’s meddling match-making bed strikes. They go to sleep on opposite sides of the bed, backs turned on each other, each one barely under the edge of the single duvet they have to share because some terrible fate apparently befell all the other ones while they were gone. In the morning, Boyd wakes up with Stiles in his arms and for a moment, while he’s at that threshold between sleep and waking, he forgets that they’re fighting and leans in to press a gentle kiss against Stiles’ lips. They remain unresponsive for the blink of an eye and then start moving against his when Stiles starts waking up. They break the kiss as soon as they’ve both got their wits about them again, but there’s a strange sort of tension between them for the rest of the day. Not the kind that’s going to explode into a fight any second like there’d been over the past weeks or months even, but more a sense of something fragile on the brink of breaking. It throws Boyd out offor  a loop at least, because he’d been convinced that it was already broken, that there was no mending it. And to discover now that it might not be broken yet, might just be cracked, badly maybe, but still holding together somehow, that changes everything. 

Maeve doesn’t confront them, at least not face on. She just makes sure they go to sleep in the same bed every night, and hints heavily as to what her thoughts on the topic are. Boyd overhears her telling Stiles a story of two lovers getting into a fight, how they try to kill each other and bring death and destruction over the earth that can only be healed through their reunion. It sounds a bit like she’s making it up on the spot, if Boyd’s honest.

The advice he is given is even more convoluted. With each meal that they prepare together, she picks out two ingredients and spends the entire time talking about how those two don’t always work together, but how you just need to add a bit more sugar, or some lemon or lime, and everything will work out. 

Maeve doesn’t stop there though. She makes sure to make them spend time together, by sending them on errands around the house and town. Once, she sends them on a veritable scavenger hunt for the ingredients for a cake. They’ve got to stop at a different shop for every single one, everyone insisting with a twinkle in their eyes that they don’t have anymore flour or eggs or whatever in stock, so Boyd and Stiles will just have to see if John on Reynolds Street has some. By the time they make it home, they are exhausted and should be itching for a fight, but instead they are laughing. Boyd had made a terrible pun about self-raising flour earlier and Stiles had laughed so hard that he’d dropped the bag with the eggs, making them have to go back to the pharmacy which supposedly is the only place in town that sells eggs. Maeve’s beds aren’t the only matchmakers in the house.

There’s no one home, and in the kitchen, the cake recipe is waiting for them, with very strict instructions, down to who is supposed to do which step. With nothing else to do really, they start baking and Boyd quickly discovers that the recipe was apparently designed to drive him crazy. It keeps making him crouch down to get stuff out of the lower cupboards and Stiles stretch up to get the things that are for some reason stored in the highest place possible in the kitchen. With every stretch, Stiles’ shirt rides up a little bit more and Boyd drops two eggs because he’s distracted by the two little moles at the bottom of his spine that he’d completely forgotten existed. Stiles seems to be a bit out of it, too, because he drops Maeve’s glass measuring cup into the sink, almost breaking it. Boyd doesn’t know exactly what happened because he was just bending over to get the mixer out from where it’s stuck between the pans and pots.

  
There are no more accidents, and they finish the cake in companionable silence. The kitchen isn’t very big, and they keep brushing against each other. Boyd knows he shouldn’t but he can’t help letting his touch linger, putting a hand on Stiles’ waist to gently turn him out of the way, a brush of shoulders as they stand next to each other preparing the dry and the wet ingredients. Stiles doesn’t draw away from him and it even feels as if he’s leaning into Boyd when he steps up behind Stiles to guide his hand into a way of whipping the egg whites that’s less tiring for the wrist. 

It strangely feels as though they are flirting, through touch instead of words, neither of them acknowledging it out loud. 

The cake turns out great, but Boyd only cares about the small smile that Stiles throws at him when Maeve praises them for it. 

~*~

Things aren’t perfect yet when they board the plane again, but Stiles curls into Boyd’s side instead of the window and Boyd isn’t planning on sleeping on the couch that night so things are definitely looking up. And in case they take a turn for the worse again, Boyd has a slightly wrinkled and smudged cake recipe stuck between the pages of his book.

They bake the cake three more times, but when they visit Maeve again the next year, Stiles gets down on one knee on the beach and “re-proposes” to Boyd. He doesn’t have a ring - they already have their wedding rings after all, and they both get soaked when a wave surprises them while Stiles is still kneeling, but Boyd still says yes of course. They don’t really do anything about the re-proposal, and when Boyd carefully asks if Stiles wants another ceremony, he denies that. 

“You got to propose the first time, I just felt it was my turn finally, you know?” he explains, and strangely enough, Boyd does know. 

Maeve plies them with too much whiskey that night and somehow Boyd finds himself kneeling on her sitting room carpet next to a Stiles that is giggling so hard he has to hold onto Boyd in order not to fall over completely. Maeve is standing in front of them, a sword that she got from god knows where in her hands, and ceremoniously touches them both with it, declaring them “husband and husband again.” So they end up having a second wedding ceremony of sorts after all. And Boyd even has a tiny scar on his neck to prove it. The sword was a bit too heavy for Maeve, it turned out.

~*~

They manage to get the rest of their families to Ireland for Maeve’s hundredth birthday. Boyd’s sisters feel right at home immediately; not a surprise, with Maeve feeding them cookies and cakes whenever she sees them. She pinches the Sheriff’s cheek and mutters something about “if I only were ten years younger” that makes Stiles actually fall off his chair from laughing and his dad blush a fairly alarming shade of pink.

What Boyd is most worried about though is how his grand-mère is going to react to meeting Maeve, his sort of adopted grandmother. When they come face to face for the first time, everybody falls silent and Boyd sort of expects either of them to pull out their colts. He could swear Stiles is humming High Noon under his breath right now, so he’s obviously not the only one. 

But then they both start smiling and hugging each other and chattering away in the strangest mix of English, French and Irish that no one should be able to understand but that seems to work for them and disappear into the kitchen together without sparing anyone another look.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Stiles says, and he really shouldn’t sound so disappointed at Boyd’s maternal figures getting along swimmingly. 

One area where they continue to uphold a healthy rivalry though is the kitchen and the food prepared there, and Boyd is pretty sure that they all return to the states several pounds heavier.

~*~

They are not there when Maeve dies. The call comes early one morning in February, almost ten years after they first went to Ireland. It’s a lawyer who dispassionately informs Boyd that Maeve Boyd has died at the age of 102 and has arranged for all of her possessions to be left to Boyd in her will. Including the Boyd Arms.

Boyd numbly agrees to everything the lawyer says, not even completely aware of what he is agreeing to. When he looks at Stiles next to him, his eyes are red but he already has his laptop open and is booking them flights for Ireland for the next possible date. It’s a terrible journey, too many layovers to count, but they make it in time to attend Maeve’s burial. It seems like the entire town has turned up, but there’s still two free spaces at the very front that have been left open for Boyd and Stiles. They don’t say anything during the funeral, but afterwards Stiles steps forward, his hand curled around something and says:   
  
“She was a queen in life and deserves the same treatment in death.”

Then he opens his hand and lets the stone that he’d been holding in his fist drop into Maeve’s grave.

~*~

Two days later, Boyd exits the lawyer’s office, officially the owner of the Boyd Arms. Stiles is walking next to him and Boyd reaches out and grabs his hand, desperate for that connection. Maeve had left everything to Boyd but there’d been a special clause in her will granting Stiles right of residence for the rest of his life if Boyd “ever makes the grave mistake of letting him go”. 

They don’t say anything until they’re back home, sitting on Maeve’s couch, both lost in their thoughts. Boyd startles when Stiles suddenly turns towards him and takes both of his hands in his. His face is serious and his voice is strong and determined when he says:   
  
“Okay, let’s do this.”

Boyd doesn’t have to ask what  this  is. This is moving to Ireland and reopening the Boyd Arms. It’s completely crazy and probably stupid and they really shouldn’t be making this decision right now, but this isn’t a spur of the moment thing, this has been a long time coming. They’ve never talked about it seriously, but they’ve joked about it, have dreamt about it, and somehow, in all of their “what if” scenarios, they’ve actually made a pretty solid plan already. As Stiles said one evening, sitting on this very couch, Maeve already in bed:

“What’s holding us back, really?”

And the answer had been: nothing. Their friends were scattered all over the states, the world really, Allison in France, Isaac there more often than not as well, Scott was learning Japanese in preparation of his and Kira’s move and Lydia was in New York. If you had to take a plane to visit them anyways, what did it matter where you boarded it? 

As far as their families were concerned, Boyd’s sisters had moved out already and his grand-mère had given him her blessing before he’d ever asked for it. Stiles’ dad had been making thinly veiled comments about the healthy sea air for years. He was only a few years away from retirement and there was nothing to hold him in America if Stiles had moved to Ireland by then. 

So really there’s nothing to say but: 

“Okay.”

~*~

They of course can’t just stay in Ireland and open a pub again that’s been closed for ten years. They’ve both got jobs to get back to in America, there’s licenses they need to procure, some very necessary renovations, the kitchen needs to be updated by a few decades, and then there’s that terrible few months when Boyd flies over alone and oversees all the work in person and he and Stiles have to deal with being in a long distance relationship for the first time since their college days again. 

Turns out skype sex isn’t quite as easy anymore when you’re almost forty. 

But somehow they get it all done. Nothing goes terribly wrong, they manage to stick to their schedule, they don’t run out of money, they don’t break up. 

And then Boyd’s waiting at the airport for Stiles who drops all of his bags and literally jumps Boyd as soon as he sees him. Boyd is pretty sure there’s people complaining around them, but all he cares about is having Stiles in his arms again. His hair has grown a bit since he last saw him in person and of course he saw it in the video chats, but it’s different when he can feel it, tug on it to move Stiles’ head back a bit so he can kiss him more comfortably.

Stiles’ lips are turned up in a smile, so it’s more their lips just rubbing against each other than a real kiss, but his arms are tight around Boyd’s neck and his body is warm and solid under Boyd’s hands. Stiles draws back slightly, and rests his forehead against Boyd’s. His eyes have small wrinkles from smiling and Boyd smooths a finger over them. He couldn’t see those on the computer screen. Stiles bites his lip and then rubs his nose against Boyd’s in an eskimo kiss. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Boyd smiles back at him, happy beyond words. He presses another quick peck to Stiles’ still smiling mouth and then nips at Stiles’ nose.

“Let’s go get your bags before someone makes them explode for security reasons.”

~*~

“Welcome to the Boyd Arms, they give the best hugs and make the best meals, but only one of those is for you!”

Boyd rolls his eyes and grins to himself when he hears Stiles’ cheerful greeting from the kitchen. The Boyd Arms has been open for a year now and Stiles still hasn’t run out of stupid puns and comments about the pub’s name. They are getting worse every day though. To be fair, they weren’t really great in the beginning either.

But they work and Boyd can hear some girls giggling. Stiles is probably guiding them to a free table right now and asking them what they want to drink. Apparently they knew what they wanted to eat already, too, because a couple of minutes later, Stiles pops into the kitchen and orders two prawn salads and a chowder. His hair is a mess and he has rolled his sleeves up to the elbows and Boyd disregards all rules of health and safety in the kitchen and drags him into a deep kiss. 

When he breaks it, Stiles is satisfyingly dazed and his lips are pink and plumb as he mumbles something about needing to prepare those drinks as he backs out of the kitchen. Boyd laughs - he’s pretty sure he can hear Stiles shout “hey” in indignation - and hums along to the radio as he starts on the newest order. It’s still early, so it’s just him and Stiles so far, none of the people they employ in the kitchen and out in the bar have arrived yet. 

Boyd opens the big recipe book on the bookstand to the correct page and strokes lightly over the “grandmother” written in the corner. The book was a gift from his grand-mère, filled to the brim with recipes. And they aren’t just her recipes but every one of Maeve’s, too. Every single recipe is carefully labeled with either “grand-mère” or “grandmother” and it’s one of his most prized possessions. He doesn’t really need the instructions for most things anymore, but he likes having it with him, being able to glance at the precise writing of his grand-mère and the little doodles his youngest sister has added in the corners. 

This order calls for recipes from both of his grannies, the prawn salad is all Maeve, but the chowder, particularly the way it’s seasoned comes from his grandmère. Neither takes long to prepare and soon he’s bringing the food out into the main room, balancing two of the three plates on one arm. Stiles is drying glasses behind the bar, singing along quietly to the song that’s playing on the radio right now, something poppy about nobody dragging him down. 

Boyd drops the food off with a smile, and then joins Stiles behind the bar, tugging him into an impromptu dance. They don’t have enough space to do more than sway lightly from side to side but Stiles smiles and then shrieks with laughter when Boyd dips him low on the next “drag me down” and kisses him dramatically. 

There’s some giggles and cheers from their only customers, but Boyd’s focus is entirely on the person in his arms. Stiles’ eyes are shut and his mouth is curved up slightly in a smile. He’s gotten more wrinkles, and just yesterday he found the first grey hair but as far as Boyd’s concerned, he’s still as beautiful as the day he saw him first. Smiling, he closes his own eyes, too, and just enjoys the moment. This, this is everything he needs, his husband, right here in Boyd’s Arms. 

****  
  



End file.
